


Melancholy

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Depressed Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Melancholy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top John, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1824925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is one of his black moods. John is there to offer comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melancholy

John woke slowly. His addled mind took a few moments to process what had awakened him. Music. Violin. Something soft and slow and unspeakably _sad_. Sherlock. John lay in the darkness, just listening, staring at the ceiling of his attic room. It had been a few weeks since a good case, and while John had secured all the firearms, it hadn’t stopped Sherlock from sinking into more and more of a sulk. It had even got to the point of John getting Sherlock out for an afternoon just so Mycroft could sweep for drugs. And now this, for the fourth night in a row.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, John got out of bed and wrapped his robe around himself. He padded down the stairs. Sherlock was facing the window, lost in his music. He hadn’t changed out of his pyjamas and robe in almost a week. Quiet as a churchmouse, John slipped into the kitchen and got the kettle going. Outside, the city was quiet, given the hour, only the haunting music echoing down his bones.

When the tea was done, John carried it out to the front room. He set one mug on the coffee table for Sherlock and curled up on the couch, leaning against the arm while he sipped his own, just watching the slender figure before him. Sherlock swayed slightly as he played, eyes closed, but John knew that he was aware of his presence.

Finally, Sherlock brought the piece to a close. He carefully set the instrument down in his chair and picked up his mug, stepping over the coffee table and settling on the other end of the couch, mirroring John in the way he tucked his legs up. The city quiet settled around them, distant traffic and the occasional barking dog. John reached his foot out and rested it against Sherlock’s.

John finished his tea first, setting  his army mug on the coffee table before sliding down to put his head on the arm rest, stretching out to put his bare feet in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock looked down at the feet in his lap, set his striped mug aside, then rolled to the side and shifted up until he could lay his head on John’s stomach. The soldier played idly with the dark curls, watching him. It felt like the detective belonged here.  Sherlock took a deep breath and released a sigh, seeming to go boneless as he relaxed.

After a while, John dozed off. He woke up to find daylight just brightening the window, his hand still tangled in curls and Sherlock staring at him like he was a particularly unusual specimen. “Good morning,” John yawned, stretching the ache out of shoulder from falling asleep on the couch.

“Why are you still here?” asked Sherlock quietly. It was a child-like voice, a child’s question. As if Sherlock had been a particularly bad boy who couldn’t understand why on earth his parent still wanted him around.

John reached down and ran a hand through Sherlock’s sleep-messed curls. “Because I want to be here.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.” Sherlock studied his face in the early-morning light. “I know you had the flat searched for drugs. I wake you up with my playing. I couldn’t even keep a roommate in university. But here you are.”

“Because I want to be here,” John repeated. It was the only answer. Sherlock bit his lip and slid up his compact body. John’s hands slid down his back, protruding ribs and light weight making him aware of the frailty underneath the baggy robe. He’d have to make sure Sherlock ate today. Both of them, really. He should get up and make breakfast. But Sherlock’s body was comfortable and his pale eyes mesmerizing as they searched John’s.

“What if there’s not another case. What if I stay like this?” One of Sherlock’s hands twisted in the shoulder of John’s robe as he bit his lip, clearly anxious.

“There will be a case eventually.” John kissed his hand and continued stroking his hair. Sherlock looked so vulnerable in that moment, in that light. He barely had any scruff, not like John’s own five o’clock shadow; John's only saving grace was that his came in blonde. Leaving his hair, John ran a hand down the detective’s downy jaw and brought his mouth closer to his own.

Sherlock seemed to be going cross eyed, trying to see what John’s mouth and hands were doing. Chuckling softly, John brought him the rest of the way and kissed him. A soft “oh” escaped Sherlock’s lips and his eyes finally closed as he relaxed against John.

John’s own eyes closed as his other hand pulled Sherlock up a little farther. He tasted like last night’s tea and smelled faintly of his expensive shampoo tinged with whatever chemicals were on the table yesterday. As Sherlock’s fingers came up to cup his cheek he could smell the rosin from the violin bow.

It felt as natural as dancing. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's slender waist and kept kissing him. He could feel the other man's growing erection against his thigh. And that was okay too.

Sherlock raised his head. "You want me."

John smiled at him. "A brilliant deduction." He rocked his hips and his own erection up against the taller man's stomach.

Leaning in, Sherlock kissed him again. John's hands travelled down the narrow waist to his arse. Sherlock moaned against him and shifted up to straddle his hips. John groaned softly as Sherlock ground down against him. “What do you want?” asked Sherlock

"Can I take you?" asked John, breathless.

Sherlock nodded and got up, hurrying to his room. John smiled, feeling a little relieved, that this probably wasn’t Sherlock’s very first time with a man. He had pushed his bottoms off by the time Sherlock returned. He put the lube in John’s hand and kicked his own bottoms off before straddling John's hips again. John coated his fingers, reached between his thighs and stroked his entrance  a moment before pressing one finger inside.

John thought Sherlock was beautiful most of the time. Now, in his lap, head rolling back, fucking himself on John's finger, he was gorgeous. The dark curls bounced and his thin cock jutted proudly from underneath his t-shirt. John shifted and kissed Sherlock's still-clothed stomach as he added a second finger. He hardly dared believe this was really happening.

"Oh John," Sherlock whispered, dropping his chin to his chest and turning lust-blown eyes on his soldier. John's heart swelled as he squeezed the man's hip, love and desire making him rock up against his soon-to-be lover. Or whatever they would call this.

It had been building a long time, this moment between them. Probably from the first moment they'd met. _"Who'd want me for a flatmate"_ indeed. Yes, this melancholy sulk had been longer and deeper than others, but John had no desire to leave. He would simply be Sherlock's lighthouse, always ready to guide him back to shore.

"Need you," said Sherlock, deep voice gone rough around the edges.

"You're almost ready." John scissored his fingers and withdrew them, quickly lubing himself and guiding Sherlock to his full cock.

With a low moan Sherlock drove himself down onto his shaft, making John rock up to meet him. “So tight,” he moaned squeezing Sherlock's hips and letting him set the rhythm, watching him move gracefully, even here and now. Wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s cock, John licked his lips. “So good, love. Just like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened, widening at the endearment. He folded himself over again to kiss John, to devour his mouth. John groaned against him and pushed him back until he toppled over onto his back, cock slipping free. In a moment, John was on top of him, plunging inside again, Sherlock’s slender legs hooking around his waist, encouraging him deeper.

John kissed him again, wanted to drown in Sherlock’s kisses. He stroked him in time to his thrusts, Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders, in his hair, body open to him - maybe even his heart. His body welcomed him and he thrust harder and deeper, feeling his orgasm already starting to curl inside his balls.

With a moan, Sherlock came, pulling his head away to gasp his pleasure, eyes tightly shut, fingers clamping around John’s short hair and pulling hard. John groaned and filled him, head dropping against Sherlock’s shoulder. As his orgasm came to an end he was aware of the detective letting go of his hair and smoothing it gently, almost cautiously, as if he was afraid he’d hurt him.

“It’s okay,” said John, picking himself up and kissing his nose with a smile. “That was really good. I...I’d wanted that for a while.”

Sherlock looked up at him, studying his eyes again. He leaned in and kissed John’s shirt, over the scar. Tenderly, John ran his fingers through his hair again before carefully pulling out. Sherlock whined.

“I know. But we need to clean up or else no one will ever be able to sit on this couch again.” He kissed the top of his head and tugged up his bottoms, heading for the bathroom.

When he returned, Sherlock was just where he’d left him, legs still pulled to his chest. The only difference was he was looking intently at his mobile. John chuckled and wiped him up. “Case?”

“It appears so.” Sherlock stood and gave John a quick kiss on the cheek before vanishing into his bedroom, probably to get dressed.

John blinked, surprised by the gesture. Humming to himself, he finished cleaning up the mess and put the kettle on again before heading up to get dressed himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to loveanddeathandartandtaxes and themadkatter13 for the beta.
> 
> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
